


Life

by sheafrotherdon



Series: Farm in Iowa Apocrypha. [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcsmooch, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-27
Updated: 2009-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't do it on the first day, or the second, or the third.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life

**Author's Note:**

> An Iowa apocrypha.

They don't do it on the first day, or the second, or the third. A week goes by and the newspapers fill with photos, with front-page stories, with editorials, and John finds himself reading the announcements in the classifieds, ready to pretend he's looking for a car if anybody asks. Two weeks, three, and it's legal for a month. Brad stops asking when they're going to get it over with, and Rodney says the secretaries have finally, _finally_ stopped checking out his hand. Jeannie sends them a toaster, with nothing on the shipping label but "!???" – and life goes on as it did before, in shades of green, with cheerios falling down the back of the couch, the truck acting cranky on rain-sodden mornings, and Finn digging a hole by the garage and insisting he's going to check on "all the lavas" before he has lunch.

No one really notices the morning Rodney takes off work, and if Laura wonders why they're keeping Finn home from daycare, she doesn't say. John picks out the shirt (pale blue) that Rodney's always liked, wears a pair of jeans with fewer holes than most, slips his wallet into his pocket, considers shaving, then decides he won't. Finn picks his own outfit – his Spiderman t-shirt is even clean – and takes along Dinosaur and a baseball that's covered in dirt. Rodney wears khakis, and his shirt is gray, then white, then, eventually, blue, and when John points out they kinda match, he turns pink around the ears and says, "well, that's supposed to be the _point_ ," and "they're not the same shade! Tonal, not matching!" and "Oh, god, should I change? Should I? Do you think – " and John fills up with a fondness he can barely stand, so he kisses him quiet and offers to drive while Rodney's still blinking and confused.

They pick up Ada; Ronon meets them at the courthouse. The license is creased from living in John's back pocket, but it doesn't seem to matter, and they've waited the full three days. Finn stands between them both, stares up at the judge with wide, solemn eyes, and when John has to say the words, his voice starts to shake, and he shuffles his feet, laughs at the way Rodney's grinning at him, says, "okay, okay," when Finn tugs at his jeans. Rodney says his part with gusto, as if he's memorized lines, as if he's been practicing at home, but when John slips the ring on his finger, he goes suddenly pale. "Fuck me," he says, almost reverently, and Ada smacks his arm; Finn jumps up and down – "Dollar! Finn dollar!" – while the judge attempts to stifle her laughter by turning it into a cough.

They muddle through, get a ring on John's finger to match the one Rodney's already begun to twirl with his thumb, and John thinks for a second he's going to lose his mind – whoop, or shout, or have his legs give out from under him, because it shouldn't make a difference, doesn't really change a thing, except it does, it has, it's legal now, and what a judge and a court and two witnesses and a son have joined together, no one gets to break apart. It makes his chest tight to think about it, makes his eyes burn and his throat close up, and when the judge says they can kiss now if they want to, he trusts that Rodney can take that in hand, because he barely knows how to goddamn breathe, thank you very much.

And Rodney does – Rodney kisses him, chapped lips, a hint of stubble, scent of soap and god, so warm. It snaps John out of wonder into something a good bit more wild, and he pulls Rodney closer, makes the kiss really count, makes it into a kiss that could light up the city if they only had power cords and cables and other useful junk. Rodney shivers; Ronon whistles hard; Ada applauds; Finn jumps on John's feet. It's pretty damn perfect, even if John says so himself.

There isn't a photographer, but Ada snaps some pictures, and Ronon says he'll write a poem, which is more than immortal enough for John. There isn't cake, or a reception to speak of, and John's pretty thankful that there'll never be a first dance, but they pile over to the diner, order eggs and sausage and pancakes and toast, and Ada gives them gift wrapped lube as a wedding gift, which makes Rodney turn purple and gives Ronon a chance to steal the bacon right off his plate. The waitress brings them congratulatory muffins; Mr. Jemison grumbles, "about goddamn time," when he hears the news; Ada makes her excuses and picks up the check and Ronon grabs Finn, stuffs him under one arm, a wriggling, shrieking, human football, says "I'll have him back by dinner," and suddenly, he's gone.

John's ring is heavy – a wide silver band – and he finds himself staring at it when he only meant to reach for his coffee.

"I," says Rodney, "would very much like to go home now." Rodney's wearing a ring too – a heavy silver ring, fourth finger, left hand, and wow, that's - _wow_.

"Home," John says, and he manages to look up from both their hands, to glance at the way Rodney's smiling at him, to swallow awkwardly and feel about sixteen. "Yeah, I could do that."

"You could do that, huh?" Rodney says; he seems amused.

"Yeah," John says. "I could." He shifts against the vinyl-covered bench. "What? You wanna make something of it?"

"Plenty," Rodney suggests.

They get home without saying much else, and John can't help but think of another drive, a concert risked and Rodney quiet, a first kiss against the truck's warm hood, fevered and thankful beneath an audience of stars. John feels it seize him all over again, that painful, May thud of his heart's recognition, and he kisses Rodney as they climb the porch steps, as they fumble with the kitchen door, as they twist toward the stairs. "Need this," John mumbles, words skipping out of him, warmed by his breath, and they fall onto the bed, still fully clothed.

"Yes, god," Rodney whispers, fingers busy with John's shirt. "Would you – god, you're so _slow_ ," and he's laughing, fumbling, and they bare just enough to let their bodies slide and arc, and when they come it's almost silently, clasping one another, shaking with something so urgent that they still have their boots on, couldn't take off their pants, might never extricate themselves from the tangle of their shirts. "I," Rodney whispers, forehead pressed to John's, "think I might like you. Just a fraction, you understand."

John rubs his nose against the curve of Rodney's neck. "Me too," he says. "Some. You know." And he rests his hand against Rodney's jaw, thumbs his cheekbone, closes his eyes. "Lots, actually."

Rodney kisses him. "Husband," he says, sounding suddenly young.

John hums. "Life," he whispers, and burrows close as Rodney pulls him in.


End file.
